In Dublin City, in 1913, the boss was rich and the poor were slaves,
The women working and the children starving then on came Larkin like a mighty wave,
The worker men cringed when the boss man thundered seventy hours was our weekly chore,
They asked for little and less was granted, less getting little we would ask for more.

It was in August the bosses told us no union man for them could work,
We stood by Larkin and told the boss man we'd fight or die but we would never shirk,
Eight months we fought eight months we starved we stood by Larkin through thick and thin,
But foodless homes and the crying children, it broke our hearts, we just couldn't win.

When Larkin left us we seemed defeated, the night was black for the working man,
Then on came Connolly with new hope and counsel his motto was that we'd rise again,
In Dublin City, in 1916, the English soldiers they burnt our town,
They shot our leaders, they shelled our buildings, the harp was buried neath the Crown.

They shot MacDermott and Pearse and Plunkett they shot MacDonagh, Ceannt, and Clarke the brave,
From bleak Kilmainham, they took their bodies to Arbour hill to a quicklime grave,
But last of all of those seven heroes, I'll sing the praise of James Connolly,
The voice of justice, the voice of freedom, he gave his life that men might be free.